A Gift of Hope: Helping the Homeless (3 page)

But as I later discovered, and as happened every time we
went out over the years, God threw us The Big One, the curve ball, at the last stop. He always did. It never failed in eleven years after that. We stopped on the way back to my house, in front of a bank. We saw two piles of “things”: boxes, a blanket, what looks like debris until you realize it’s someone’s house, or “crib,” as they’re called on the street. One of the men who joined us to do this work shortly after, and is one of the founding members of the group, used to see cribs like these, and cheerfully call out “table for two!” so we would know how many to prepare for. In any case, we were aware that we were stopping for two people, and thus far it had been a good night.

As we approached the doorway to the bank, which was somewhat sheltered, we saw only one person, or form, between the two piles of stuff. I couldn’t see the sex or age of the person, who was lying on a single piece of cardboard, with a thin, tattered blanket covering the form. A wheelchair caught my eye at the edge of the small encampment, and I assumed we would be meeting an old woman or man. We called out, asking if the person needed a sleeping bag or a warm jacket, and a young woman sat up and looked me in the eye. She was beautiful, with a face like an angel, long blond hair, neatly brushed, and huge blue eyes. She looked at me, frightened at first, and we explained that we had some warm jackets, sleeping bags, gloves, and socks to give away. In fact, we only had
two sets left, and had been careful not to stop at larger groups on the way back, so as not to disappoint anyone or cause a fight. So this was definitely our last stop.

“You’re giving them away?” she said, looking stunned. I nodded and smiled, as her face dissolved before me and she started to cry. She couldn’t say anything, she just sat there on the street sobbing, shivering in the cold, and she thanked us profusely when she caught her breath. She said that she was with her mother, who had gone to use the bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s and would be back in a minute. We went to the van, and got what we had left, as I wished it was more. And when we came back, she volunteered that she was twenty-one, had cancer, had just started chemotherapy, and was starting to lose her hair. My stomach turned over as I listened. She could have been one of my older children. How could she be living on the street, covered by one ragged blanket and undergoing chemo? She kept thanking us and crying, unable to believe that we had appeared in the night and had anything to give her. As we talked, her mother returned, and the four of us chatted. They said they were afraid to go to a shelter, and had gotten hurt in shelters before. (Rapes, robberies, and muggings are common in homeless shelters.) They said they would rather take their chances on the streets, where they felt safer, than risk violence in a shelter. They quickly put
on the jackets and got into the sleeping bags, and after talking a little more, feeling helpless, we wished them good things. They thanked and blessed us when we left.

Back in the van, we were silent for the ride back to my house. Not a word was said. My mind was full of all we had seen, and my heart was aching for that beautiful and very sick young girl. I was haunted by her face, and everything she had said. And I did not know it yet, as I climbed out of the empty van back at my house, but that last stop had done it. The twenty-one-year-old girl with cancer had ripped out my heart. God’s Last-Stop Curve Ball had hit me squarely in the gut. I was hooked.

T
he night after our venture out to “help the homeless” (What help? A few jackets and some sleeping bags? In the face of all they needed, who was kidding whom?) was the night of my annual Christmas party, which for twenty years had been a lavish event. It was a different time, when the economy was stable and the world wasn’t as austere as it is now. That night, I had a hundred people in black tie for dinner, including well-known socialites, a smattering of famous people, the mayor, some other politicians, a congresswoman, a senator, and several judges. Although my daily life was spent at the orthodontist or soccer games, and driving carpools—the life of the mother of nine kids—my parties had always been a big deal, and I went all out. I had debated canceling that year, because of my son, but decided it would be even more depressing for me and my children to sit in a dark house and
not follow familiar traditions or see friends. So I gave the same party I did every year. I wore a long black evening gown, and the guests were well dressed and bejeweled. There was a band. People danced. There’s no question it was beautiful, even if I wasn’t having a good time. And the reality was, my wearing sackcloth and ashes wasn’t going to change the plight of people on the street. And my interest in the homeless was very new to me. So the show went on. What was different was that, as I sat at my dinner party, I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I was nervous, distracted, haunted by all that we had seen the night before, and particularly the young woman and her mother at our last stop. I could think of nothing else.

I was seated next to a high-up elected city official, and I casually brought up the issue of the homeless in the city and their seemingly growing numbers. He complained somewhat irascibly that people who try to help them don’t know what they’re doing and only make things worse. The more you give them, he insisted, the longer they’ll dig in their heels and stay on the street. It seemed a strange theory to me. Why would anyone
want
to stay on the street for a sleeping bag and a pair of socks? It made no sense to me (and still doesn’t, although it is the excuse most often used for people doing nothing to help). The subject changed. The night went on. The mayor and I danced a time or two. And at last everyone went home. By then, I wasn’t crawling out of my skin, I knew exactly what
I wanted to do. I just hoped I could find them again, at the bank.

The employee who had helped me the night before was also working that night. He looked very different in black tie than he had the night before. As soon as the guests left, I told him my plan, and his eyes lit up as he agreed to join me in a quick visit to the streets. I rushed upstairs, took my dress off, and climbed into jeans, boots, a wool cap, a sweater, and a ski parka. He changed into jeans and a warm jacket too. And five minutes later we drove off in the van. I had a moment of feeling like Robin Hood, one minute dancing with the mayor, the next driving off in the dark of night. And much to my chagrin, when we got to the bank, the young woman with cancer and her mother were gone. Damn. It had seemed like such a good idea, but got us nowhere. For the next hour, we drove around. I didn’t want to go home until we found them. I couldn’t bear thinking of that sick girl and her mother on the street.

Finally, we found them in the dark recesses of a nearby parking lot, tucked away in a corner. The gleam of the wheelchair had caught our eye. I gently woke them up and we offered to give them a ride to a shelter, which they refused, and I gave them enough money for a hotel for a week. They said they knew of one where they could stay. There was more crying, more hugging, more blessings, and more thanks. We gave them our cell phone numbers and asked them to let us know
how they were. They were the only homeless people I ever gave my phone number to, or gave money to.

What followed, over long months, were several visits with them on the street, and many phone calls. I got them into a women’s shelter twice and they wouldn’t stay. We followed them for close to a year, maybe longer, unable to really provide any solid long-term help, just the knowledge that someone cared. They always bounced right back onto the street—the mother was feisty and didn’t comply well with shelter rules. Eventually, we learned that the young woman had died. I could never find her mother after that, she vanished from the streets. I don’t know what happened to her, but that young woman with her lovely face and gentle ways got me hooked for all those years on the streets. I never forgot her and never will. Many faces and many people since then have snagged my heart and stuck in my mind, but that one young girl was special to me. I only wish I could have made more difference than I did. The only thing we could do was show her that someone cared. It was all we had to give. And for as long as we could, we tried to give her hope. But she and her mother were typical of many who feel more at home living on the streets, despite bad weather, bad people, and bad times. To many, shelters, where violence, petty crimes, and disease abound, seem more dangerous. They have more friends and
feel safer on the streets. For others, long-sought-after housing isolates them when they finally get it. Once alone in an apartment, they fall prey to depression, and far too often suicide is the result. Although the risks and discomforts on the street are obvious, for many homeless people it is a comfortable, familiar world.

After our second meeting with the young woman and her mother, I felt that I had done my job and fulfilled my mission. But something had changed in my life during those two nights, a piece of me had shifted, and I was forever different. You don’t go back to who you were before. You are never, ever the same again. It is permanently life-altering to discover the world on the streets. But I didn’t know that at the time.

I thought then that I was off the hook. The message I’d heard didn’t tell me to make a career of it, it just said to go do it, and I did. So I went back to my daily doings and ordinary life, working and being with my kids. I had no plan to do it again. And then a week later, right before Christmas, I heard
Go back and do it again
. Nuts! I was less reluctant than the first time, but I’ll admit, I dragged my feet a bit. And then finally, I gave in.
Okay, okay, I’m going. Yeesh
. Sometimes God is a little pushy, and even pushes hard. He did.

This time I asked two employees and two friends to join me, and we filled the van until it was bursting. We even had
jackets in two sizes. And as we drove out that cold night, in a driving rain, I was not quite sure that this would be our last visit to the streets, nor that I wanted it to be.

John and Jane, the couple who joined me that second time, were the perfect choice. They were close friends of mine and had done years of hands-on work for a variety of causes, most recently taking care of people with AIDS, bringing them meals and comfort. The misery of the human condition is no surprise to them, and they were anxious to join me in reaching out to the homeless. They were the only people I confided in about what I was doing. Right from the beginning, and not even sure why, I had a strong sense that this was something I didn’t want to talk about, or share with people I knew. I had always had a powerful belief that good deeds should be done anonymously and in silence. They lose meaning when you toot your own horn, expect acknowledgment or praise, or talk about them. It has taken me more than a dozen years to break that silence, which I’ve done only because I felt that the homeless could be best served by waking people up and sharing what I’ve seen.

John and Jane have huge hearts, willing hands, strong backs, and are full of creativity and spirit. An artist with tremendous talent, Jane also spent years working in retail, and jumped excitedly into ordering what we needed when I shared this project with her. John, a professor at a major university,
has a profound love for young people, anyone in need, and is always willing to help.

On that second trip into the streets, we still had no idea what we were doing. Once again jackets were piled all over the place, sleeping bags were jammed everywhere, and boxes of gloves and socks were spilling onto the van floor. Our hearts were in the right place, and wide open, and we had no idea who we would meet or what we would find. I had no sense yet of who exactly lived on the streets, and no precise idea of what they needed. All I knew was that they were cold and wet, and anything we could bring them would be an improvement. I realized that they must be hungry too, but offering food as well as sleeping bags and warm jackets seemed way too complicated to me. So we stuck to the initial concept of sleeping bags, jackets, socks, and gloves. For now, it seemed like the best we could do.

We set off in anticipation of the night, excited about it, chatting animatedly. It was cold and rainy. I was wearing foul-weather gear that I had used in boating. I must have looked like a large yellow rubber duck in overalls, hooded jacket, and rubber boots. The others wore similar gear, but whatever we were wearing, by our second or third stop we were soaking wet. In a rain that was blowing sideways in a strong wind, there seemed to be no way to stay dry that night. And if we were cold and damp in our foul-weather gear, the condition
of the people we stopped for was beyond belief. Some were in T-shirts plastered to their skin in the rain, jeans that were soaked, and shoes that were dissolving. Many had bare feet, and everyone was shivering, many sick, coughing or with fevers. Few had jackets, and they must have looked at us like we were from outer space, particularly me in my ridiculous rubber-ducky yellow suit.

Our good humor and good spirits, and nervously exchanged bad jokes between stops, began to dissipate as the night wore on. What we were seeing was just too hard, and basically too sad. The people we stopped for were so cold, miserable, and too often sick. Women were crying, men looked dazed. We wanted to put our arms around them, instead of just jackets. Our offerings seemed so meager, and their plight so extreme. And worse yet, it was almost Christmas. Understandably, the holiday seemed not to matter on the streets. No one had mentioned it all night.